


Reflections

by Chellann_Nicollares



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Fluff, Rhettina - Freeform, Rhink Summer Ficathon 2k16, prompt: the mirror of Erised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chellann_Nicollares/pseuds/Chellann_Nicollares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of falling in love with someone's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by GMMore #893.

Link adjusted the pillows between his back and the headboard and relaxed into them. The bathroom door was cracked open and he could see, from his full length mirror, a sliver of reflection of the tall figure inside toweling damp hair. He smiled, glancing at the beard oil sitting on his nightstand. It brought him back to when they met three weeks ago.

Link was looking into a different mirror—his enormous makeup mirror framed by Broadway lights. He examined the pin-straight part in his hair where the longer strands were swept away from the shortened section. The blazing bulbs were merciless on the faint traces of gray. He glanced at the small bottle of black hair powder that he purchased a week before, which had remained unopened on his vanity ever since. The show would start in mere minutes. _Too late to be experimenting with quick fixes_ , he thought. Plus, a few astute viewers had caught the gray hairs before he bought the hair powder and announced it in the comments, eliciting a storm of replies defending his good looks and talent and criticizing the ageist bias of society as a whole. But regardless of the faults and merits of the comments, those traces of gray had become public knowledge. They were no longer his to conceal. Plus, his natural hair under the studio lighting was a rich dark-chocolate brown, and the dull hair powder would look jarring against the glossy strands. The poor camouflage would probably invite more comments and debate that completely miss the actual content of the episode.

But Link has learned to sift through those comments with a discerning eye and only take those sincere, constructive ones to heart. He had been doing this for far too long to still be affected by a few rude words from strangers. His Internet show had grown from a podcast recorded in his basement into a multi-million viewed daily talk show alternating through comedic monologues, games, science experiments, taste tests, and guest interviews, all in front of a live studio audience. He had been reaping accolades for his unique sense of humor and unrelenting productivity, especially his promotion of new artists with diverse backgrounds who wouldn’t dream of a seat on one of the late night TV talk shows. More than a few fans had speculated that his show, enjoying international popularity and being as accessible as the Internet itself, had far more views than late night TV anyway. Besides, his well-prepared but unscripted “candid first impression” interviews proved to be a much more authentic introduction of his guests than TV networks could ever achieve. This, by happenstance, made him a powerhouse for entertainment promotion. His team dealt with solicitation from publicists, agents and production companies of “traditional” media on a daily basis, but he had always instructed them to approach those with a cautious eye. Link would never have taken what he believed in and traded it for any amount of fame or fortune.

He took off his already spotless glasses and cleaned them once again, trying not to stare too hard at the blurry reflection of tired lines around his eyes.

A soft knock fell on his dressing room door.

“Five minutes to go time.” Stevie, wearing her producer’s headset, peeked in and announced in her bright soprano voice.

“I’m ready,” he smiled, replacing his glasses. “How’s our guest?”

“Just a little nervous but very excited.”

“I can work with that. Once the conversation starts rolling it only gets easier.”

The svelte blonde gave him a warm and encouraging smile, and disappeared down the hall with weightless steps.

“Good morning and welcome to Cereal Talk.” He whispered to his reflection. It was his ritual to quash those small painful waves of anxiety that tended to visit him right before taping. In a few minutes, he would have to recite the line with much more conviction and enthusiasm.

He stood up and checked his narrowly tailored powder blue suit worn over a casual navy plaid shirt. _Nothing out of place. Good._ He took another glance at the hair powder before stepping through the narrow corridor towards the stage, nodding to various production assistants bustling about their business. A foot away from stage entrance, he could hear Stevie explaining to the audience once again that there were microphones pointed towards their seating area to record spontaneous applause and laughter, but anything they say might also be caught on tape. She thanked their participation and reminded once again that all cell phones must be turned off. She handed Link a hand-held microphone before taking her seat.

Smile. Deep breath. He jogged onto the stage of black and white checker tiles, waving to thunderous applause.

“Good morning and welcome to Cereal Talk!” He delivered the line flawlessly and nodded appreciatively to unanimous cheers from his spectators. He took a casual wide stance in front of a massive screen that displayed the show’s logo.

“So,” he stuck his free hand in the pocket of his skinny trousers and casually shifted his weight, “you all know I've been here in LA for more than five years now.” A wave of applause rose and Link nodded with a bright smile. “Yeah, it feels longer than I thought when I _really_ think about it. But during this time I have opened up my mind and my heart to be thoroughly Los Angeles-ized.” He paused and heard many chuckles. “And one thing, I've realized, that's a good indication of how well you've adjusted to life in LA, is what you wear to the farmers market.” The audience laughed in pleasant surprise. They liked the twist. Link relaxed further and began pacing casually, one hand still in his pocket.

“What I always wear to the farmers market are these weird elastic cloth things that cover the bottom of my feet and wrap around my toes and heels—they look like I stepped into play dough and a layer stuck to my feet. You know those? They’re call no-show socks.” The audience chuckled again. “I recommend those if you want to look like a savvy Angelino like myself. You know, if I can transform from this shirtless hick on a tractor in North Carolina to a hipster at the LA farmer’s market wearing no-show socks, so can you.” He pointed to the camera with a provocative spark in his eyes, and the laughter came louder. “I also recommend being a 38 year old man with very hairy legs, putting Vans over your no-show socks and carrying your tiny little dog in a messenger bag. But also…”

The audience laughed and applauded so hard Link had to pause, smile and nod.

“But also, if you don't have those, make sure to wear something interesting, you know? This is the farmers market. Express yourself. Actually, put that on a T-shirt. Get a T-shirt that says ‘this is the farmers market, express yourself,’ and wear _that_ to the farmers market. Don’t just put on that old drab gray suit you wore to work on Monday. Or if you have to wear that, if the only clean clothes you have are your boring gray suit, make sure there’s a T-shirt under it that says ‘this is the farmers market, express yourself.’ Or, put nothing under. Wear nothing but your two-inch thick chest hair in your going-to-work-on-Monday suit, and go enjoy the farmers market.” He paused for the laughter again. “Preferably you grow the chest hair organically like I do. But if not, you have permission from Cereal Talk to repurpose that wig that you wore once in the 80s and never touched again. Call it DIY body beard. Actually don’t call it that. I’m gonna trademark that. I'm gonna carry DIY body beard in my store along with no-show socks and 'this is the farmers market, express yourself' T-shirts. But for the hairy legs and the tiny dog, you're on your own.”

The laughter and applause concluded his monologue and provided a seamless transition into the next segment.

“Thank you, thank you. So it is Thursday, and Thursday is the best day because it’s a guest day.” The audience cheered on for the catch phrase while Link strolled towards the secondary set where two homely single-seater couches flanked an unpainted wooden coffee table. On the coffee table sat two mugs with the Cereal Talk logo and a microphone stand. A book had been placed on the table by his production assistants prior to the show's start. Link fixed his hand-held onto the stand with practiced ease and took a seat on the right.

“Our guest today is the author of a new book that is taking the nation by storm. It’s already spent two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. This is _Forest of Mirrors_ by R.J.M.”

The cover of the book filled the screen behind him. The cover art design was simple but eye-catching—the title and author of the book appeared to be metal sculpted letters floating mid-air. Their reflections were fractured by a sparse collage of mirrors. Through the gaps between the mirrors, the viewer could see an ambiguous background of fog and smoke.

Link held up his copy to the close-up camera. It sported small yellow post-its protruding haphazardly from the top and side of the book.

“Now, ‘sensational’ is a very overused word. You know me, I don’t like clichés. But as you can see I’ve read this book from cover to cover and could not find a better word to describe it other than ‘sensational’. However, speaking of cover to cover,” he turned the book around, showing the back side, “I’ve looked everywhere and could not find the author’s bio or portrait. I’m guessing that other readers are just as curious as me—who is R.J.M.? What do those letters stand for? And we’re going to answer those questions _right now_. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our guest to the Cereal Studio!”

Excited cheers and applause echoed the lively techno music clip. Through the stage entrance, a tall, lean figure glided towards the camera in a skin-tight burgundy lace dress cut just to the knee. Silken dark blonde hair cascaded just past the guest’s collarbone. As the figure came closer, Link and the hushed audience took in thick expressive eyebrows, meticulously painted burgundy lips matching the exact shade of the dress, and a neatly trimmed beard.

Link didn’t know which caused that fleeting jolt of anxiety—the audience’ silence or the needle sharp stiletto heels underneath the figure that was already half a foot taller than his own six-feet frame. But the lace clad guest tamed those shoes with steady poise. Link watched wordlessly for a few seconds before the experienced stage performer within him awoke and took control. He rose eagerly from his seat and extended a hand with the warmest of smiles. As they greeted and shook hands, the audience took cue and applauded.

“Wow, thank you for coming. You must be seven-foot tall in those shoes! Damn!” Link teased while the guest smiled warmly and the audience laughed. “You’re looking stunning by the way!” Link complemented sincerely as they both settled into the soft couches. He was deeply intrigued by the tall, trim figure and the beautifully sculpted face.

“Thank you so much! I am a huge fan and it is my absolute pleasure to be here.” The guest responded. It was a gentle baritone voice with a very charming husk at the edges.

“Congratulations on the success of your book, first of all!”

“Thank you! I'm honored.”

The audience applauded much more loudly than a moment ago. Link observed that his guest seemed genuinely surprised by the sheer number of people that were cheering. A pair of deep green eyes roamed over the rows upon rows of spectators left to right, near to far. The red lips fell open innocently.

“And…I have to ask: should we call you R.J.?”

“Um…I prefer Rhettina.”

“Rhettina, that’s a beautiful name! So based on that and your gorgeous dress,” Link hesitated for only a fraction of a second, he could hear silence taking over the studio, “am I safe to assume that you would prefer ‘she’?”

“I…I would. Yes.” The charming voice turned softer and Rhettina’s careful eyes immediately darted to the audience, who responded with applause. Link was glad to see her sit up just a touch straighter, shoulders dropped and smile turned brighter.

“So…the follow-up to that is…a question that is probably on everyone’s mind, why is your publishing name completely abbreviated?”

Rhettina hesitated for a few seconds. A serious expression took over her sculpted face.

“I think…for the first name, it’s probably the same reason that the Bronte sisters published under male pseudonyms and J.K. Rowling published with abbreviations instead of ‘Joanne Rowling’. Writing is a peculiar industry where when a publisher or editor or reader sees ‘Charlotte’ or ‘Emily’ or ‘Joanne’ or ‘Rhettina’ on the cover, I feel that there’s a bias that forms in their mind before they even turn to the first page. Is this just gonna be a cliché romance number? Is this some uptown New York liaison tale where everyone is a model and what they wear is 90% of the story? Is it, God forbidden, a universe where Mary Sue saves the day, you know? But when a name is abbreviated to just a letter, it has no gender. You look at a letter and you can’t assume anything. And for…”

The audience’ applause interrupted Rhettina’s eager lips. She smiled and glanced gratefully around the studio while Link joined in, clapping his hands and nodding enthusiastically.

“And for the last name,” she continued when the applause gradually faded, “kind of the same thing applies. My last name is McLaughlin for example, and if I were to publish under, say, Rhettina J. McLaughlin, the reader would think oh, this is a story written by some white girl from the U.S. or U.K., and of course I know what to expect. But even that would still affect me a lot less than it would someone whose last name is, perhaps, Malouf or Azikiwe or Zhang, where they could be perceived as foreign, unappealing or less competent in the English language than someone whose last name is McLaughlin. And if a reader sees the portrait of the author is a bearded lady, who knows? They might never pick up the book in the first place. But it shouldn't matter, in literature as in everything else, what someone’s name is or what they look like. The quality of the work should be the only focus, not the identity of the author.”

The applause rose in a crashing wave. Rhettina pressed a manicured hand over her heart and mumbled a string of thanks that were drown out by the clapping hands. Link studied her expressive features. He could see that she was deeply moved. He was too, by her words.

“And I think everyone should also remember that no matter what book they pick up in the future, to not dwell on the name on the cover, right?”

“Exactly!”

Link nodded sincerely. “And so…even though you introduced yourself fully today on this show, when you publish your next book…”

“It would still be R.J.M., abbreviated.” Rhettina finished his sentence to the approval of the audience.

“That's perfect because I think you've established a very strong brand name in that abbreviation through this amazing debut.” Link turned his copy vertical again and gestured enthusiastically.

“Thank you! And can I just say—I'm flattered by how thoroughly you read it. It looks like you're ready to take an exam about this book!” Rhettina pointed to the post-its and smiled. The audience was delighted.

“Oh without a doubt girl!” Link teased with a casual and intimate inflection that elicited laughter all around the studio. “I…this is why I can’t have authors come here as often as I would like because I have very limited time to read! This one especially, there are so many passages in here that I marked and went back and read again, and I gave it all of my time. I didn’t do laundry, I didn’t go grocery shopping, I’ve been eating cereal all day every day,” he paused to let the audience acknowledge the reference to his irrational love of cereal that inspired the moniker of the show itself, “and I will regret saying this on camera but I didn’t shower until right before we started rolling, and then I put the same pair of underwear back on because I haven’t done laundry yet. All of my underwear are dirty because of your book.” The audience became boisterous, despite how familiar they were with Link’s proclivity to accidental innuendos.

“That came out wrong.” He held out his hand with a placating smile while Rhettina pressed both hands over her lips and shook with laugher, red-faced. “Let’s…move on, and I will let you introduce _Forrest of Mirrors_ to our audience.”

“So…” Rhettina tried to steady her amused voice but immediately burst into more laughter. The audience echoed her. She cleared her throat gently and took a deep breath. “So _Forrest of Mirrors_ is a story in a world that’s mostly the same as ours, with the same people, technology, geography and cosmic environment. Except that there is a legend that somewhere in this world exists an infinite collection of mirrors. Each mirror is a view into a parallel universe—if you stand in front of it you see a vision of yourself in that universe, how your life is, what you do for a living, where you live and with whom, everything about this alternate version of you. And because, in theory, there are an infinite number of universes, the number of mirrors and the exact size of the collection is unknowable. Everyone just calls it a forest. And once you enter the forest—if you can find it at all, you must know when to walk away. You would have to remind yourself to stop looking after seeing a limited number of parallel universes. Because if you don’t stop, you’ll be drawn deeper and deeper into this infinite space full of reflections of alternate realities and eventually abandon your own reality, and you will be lost forever.”

“And just hearing that introduction is making me want to go back and read it again!” Link spoke eagerly. “But before we go into a little more detail I must say that...when I first started reading this I thought of that mirror in Harry Potter—you know the one that showed his parents?”

“The mirror of Erised? I can totally see why you made the connection. The mirror of Erised shows your deepest desire, right? And it has the power to drive you mad because it kind of consumes you with how desperately you want but can't have what's in the mirror. You could also think of the mirror of Erised as showing Harry an alternate universe where his parents were alive—he and anyone who looks into the mirror for that matter would see one alternate reality that they consider ideal. Whereas in this book, every mirror is simply a different reality. They are all different, but are they better or worse than your real life? How do you define 'better' or 'worse'? Logically and statistically speaking there has to be a version of you out there that's living the perfect life in another universe, right? Don't you want to see yourself in that perfect life? Don't you want to know what you did to get that perfect life? These are the kind of questions that drive the people in this world. However even if you do find the forest you wouldn't know which mirror is the one with the alter-ego of perfection—you'll have to keep looking; and even if you find _that_ mirror you can only look at that reality, you can't enter it. But still, the obsession with finding this ideal alter-ego is one of the things that would draw you deeper and deeper into the forest until you are consumed by possibilities and dissatisfaction and lose your mind.”

“ _Now_ are you convinced that you need to read this book?” Link gave a meaningful look to the camera, drawing applause from the audience and a bashful smile from Rhettina. “But based on what we just heard about the premise of the story—a reader would need to believe that parallel universes exist in the first place, right?”

“Or at least consider it a possibility, and there are good reasons to do so! Now, I’ll try to keep it short since this is kind of an obsession of mine and I could go on forever but basically, there are many multiverse theories out there that seek to explain the possible existence of parallel universes, what caused them and what the rules are, if any. But my personal favorite one theorizes that everything that can happen is happening.”

“Everything that can happen is happening,” Link repeated slowly like a diligent student, making sure that he and the audience are all engaging in the idea, “as in simultaneously with what is actually happening in our universe.”

“As long as it doesn’t violate the laws of physics, yes. You could even say that imagination itself is the act of exploring parallel universes.”

Link was momentarily speechless when he considered the depth and indications of the statement. He turned a deeply impressed expression towards the audience and drew a round of applause for his guest.

“Wow. Wow that’s quite the idea to consider. But in your book the people go beyond exploring these parallel universes with just imagination, right? They actually want to see them with their own eyes through these legendary mirrors that make up the mythical forest.”

“Exactly. Yes.” Rhettina leaned forward in her chair enthusiastically. Her expressive eyebrows were animated. “The Forest of Mirrors is kind of a shared obsession throughout the world where this story takes place. There are people who try to locate it through scientific methods, people who turn the legend into a religion and draw believers all over the world, people who resort to things like witchcraft, and fanatic skeptics who speak against all possibility that such a thing can exist. And of course among all of them there are those who seek to profit from the people’s belief or disbelief of the forest—selling related publications, expensive equipment that supposedly reveal its location, using the search for it to further their political career, et cetera. And then there are expeditioners. These are people who take all this information—the science and archeology findings, ancient writings, word-of-mouth legends, and they set off on a quest to find this forest. Some do it in groups, others alone. The story focuses on one such group that’s made up of a variety of people like I just described—scientist, archaeologist, artist, journalist, politician; and we follow them on their journey to find the forest and we see friendship and romance and conflict start to grow among them, and between them and the people that they meet on the way.”

“So their search for alternate realities actually reveals the deepest truths about themselves in their reality.”

“Wow, I wish I would have put that on the cover!” Rhettina exclaimed sincerely.

“I'll be happy to make promotional T-shirts for you that say exactly that. They all know I love to put things on T-shirts.” He addressed the audience who confirmed cheerfully. “Now I cannot believe we're almost running out of time but I have to add one more thing because I love this book so much. Your characterization. You know how when you go watch one of those summer blockbusters,” Link turned to the audience, “it's so obvious from the beginning who's the hero, who's the villain, who's nothing more than a love interest, like it’s so typecast you might as well put stickers on their foreheads that say ‘hello I’m the hero’ or ‘hello I’m the villain,’ right?”

Both Rhettina and the audience nodded in complete agreement.

“But when I’m reading this story, one thing I realized is that not a single character is a typecast. You can't find a clean-cut hero because even the people who take kind of the leadership position of this expedition are deeply, deeply flawed and driven by their own personal interests; and on the flip side, those that you kind of begin to categorize as villains would later turn out to have very relatable vulnerabilities.”

“Exactly! I meant for my characters to be just like people in the real world—it’s hard to absolutely love or absolutely hate anyone. Everyone is complex and driven by complex motivations. I want every reader to be able to see themselves on the journey to the Forrest of Mirrors.”

“I _love_ that. And I promise you will too once you read this incredible book.” Link held his copy up like a trophy and turned again to the audience. “Everyone here in the studio gets a signed copy. _Forest of Mirrors_ will be the selection of the Breakfast Book Club this month, and when you finish reading it go to cerealnation.com, discuss and connect with other members of the community. Thank you for watching, leave a comment, and I will see you tomorrow!”

Link signed off with a guileless smile and his signature double victory sign and the audience gave a standing ovation.

After the cameras were turned off Rhettina and Link retreated to the dining room in the studio that Link had furnished with thick couches and soft lighting for his employees to relax. Occasionally someone would come by with a copy of the book brought from home and Rhettina would sign it with many warm smiles and kind words. She and Link sipped fair trade coffee and ordered pizza, and continued their enthused discussion about the book, her view on the multi-verse theories, writing and creating videos, and life itself. Link was amazed by how comfortable he was to reveal deeper layers of his anxious self to someone who was essentially a stranger—for example, about how sometimes he would wish he had realized his true passion and started pursuing it at 16 like so many of his colleagues and competitors, and thereby beat the gray hairs to the peak of his career. But Rhettina explained that of course, there could be an alternate Link somewhere that started making the same kind of Internet-based video content at 16 and did reach the kind of success Link enjoyed now at the age of 25. However, there would also be many versions of him that started “Internetainment” at 16 but was too young to have the kind of discipline and determination to create content with such astounding consistency, and instead ended up being a haphazard nameless “Vlogger” like so many others; or a Link who was young and impulsive enough to be lured in by the promise of fame and fortune boasted by traditional media and ended up contracting himself into mediocrity at an entertainment conglomerate that could care less about his well-being; in yet another universe he could start at 16 but give in to the pressure from his family to turn back and go to college like a “normal” success story, and be alienated from his true passion for the rest of his life. We would imagine an ideal version of ourselves that existed somewhere, she said, but in all the parallel universes the alternate us probably all have their own reasons to be anxious and unhappy. There could be another reality where one's biggest insecurity was fixed to perfection, but a million other things could go wrong. We simply would never know.

When the last employee had gone home they were still talking. During the last hour of their conversation Link was finding himself absorbed by the warm glow of her olive-gray eyes. He also adored how the apples of her cheeks became more supple every time she smiled. He was getting repeatedly distracted by the thought of kissing those cheeks or even those bearded lips.

Since then he had had many more prolonged conversations with Rhettina, but in quiet coffee shops tucked away at the far corners of LA. The last two were in Link’s living room. There had been some hoodie-over-baseball-cap dinner and movie outings as well, all of which Link thought ended way too soon. In the midst of these events he had returned the hair powder and exchanged it for the beard oil sitting on his nightstand—a gift for his beautiful companion.

The bathroom door opened and Link smiled to the tall figure strolling toward him. She was wearing faded brick-red terry shorts and a white cotton camisole. No lipstick, bare feet. Her dark blonde hair was still half damp from the shower and messily coiled on top of her head. She carefully settled into the mattress beside Link and regarded him with thoughtful eyes. In the dim lighting, those eyes took on the gray-blue of a stormy ocean.

“Something on your mind?” Link asked huskily, his hand ever so slowly gliding up her arm towards the strap of her camisole.

“I have to ask…” she hesitated, fidgeting, “am I here in your bed because I still look and feel like a man?”

“Hmm,” Link pulled a strap off her shoulder and kissed the lightly freckled skin. “you’re here in my bed because you are beautiful and interesting.” He smirked, moving his lips to her blushing cheek, “and because I am incredibly lucky.”

Soon they were pressed so tightly together he could feel her speeding heart against his own. He reached for the chord on the bedside lamp.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! A lot of the ideas that I've put into this fic are things that matter a lot to me and I would love to hear what you think. Please let me know in the comments!! Thanks in advance for all the little red hearts too!


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